


Old Enemies, New Partners

by Telaryn



Category: Leverage
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Gen, Secret Relationship, Secrets, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 01:18:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telaryn/pseuds/Telaryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unbeknownst to the rest of the team, Eliot and Tara have met before...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Enemies, New Partners

  
Eliot could always tell when there was an intruder in his apartment. Parker thought it was just another one of his super powers that he refused to talk about, and he let her run with the notion because it didn’t do any harm and it seemed to make her happy. Hardison thought he was making it up so he could sound more important. Only Nate seemed to understand that it was simply a case of being aware of his surroundings. After being hunted nearly his entire life by one thing or another, Eliot had developed an almost sixth sense for knowing whether he was safe or not.

And tonight, two cautious steps into his apartment, he _knew_ beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wasn’t.

“Bad form,” he said, raising his hands and waiting for her to turn on the light. “You want us to trust you – this isn’t the way.”

Tara was standing behind his wet bar, the pistol she had aimed at his head rock-steady in her federally trained tea-cup grip. “You forget I’m getting paid to watch-dog you amateurs,” she said, her expression stony. “And trust? You?” The history behind the incredulity hung heavy in the air between them.

Eliot’s answering grin was almost a snarl. “Amateur? Now you’re just being mean, Tara.” He lowered his hands part-way, taking a perverse enjoyment in the almost imperceptible flash of nerves it drew out of her. “You know, Sophie changes names as often as she changes outfits – how come you’re still Tara?”

“Sophie’s got her own reasons for being in the game,” Tara said. “No matter what I do or where I go, I’m still me.”

“Put the gun down,” he said, lowering his hands finally. “If you were really interested in shooting me, you wouldn’t have waited this long.” She was a good grifter, and before that she’d been a good FBI agent. He was simply better when it came to taking someone’s measure and knowing what they were likely to do.

She had a moment where she could have proved him wrong, but Eliot hadn’t risen to the top of his game by taking stupid risks. “Sophie spent a lot of time trying to convince me you weren’t a bad guy,” she said, lowering the gun with a sharp exhalation of breath.

Eliot snorted. “Not as good at reading people as she thinks she is.” He paused, looking Tara over. “You hungry? I was going to throw a steak on, but there’s enough for two.”

He’d caught her off-guard. “You’re inviting me to dinner?”

His smile at that was genuine. “Hardly. I’m just offering to feed you. Someday I’ll invite you to dinner and you’ll understand the difference.” Even though he was sure she wasn’t going to shoot him - _tonight, anyway_ \- he waited until she’d holstered her weapon before heading to the kitchen.

“How did you end up here?” she asked, trailing him into his workspace.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, indicating that she needed to take a seat at the table. “You mean with Nate and Sophie?” He shrugged. “Nate’s got a way of getting under people’s skins – it’s hard to explain.” He smiled thinking of tough, cynical Tara being won over to Nate Ford’s Robin Hood ways. “Just wait,” he said, opening the cabinets and starting to pull out what he needed. _Red wine…maybe some Worcestershire…mushrooms…_ The litany ran through his head as comforting background noise, guiding his movements so he could continue to hold a conversation with his “guest”.

“Nate Ford is an arrogant, self-absorbed, alcoholic jackass,” Tara spat, her pretty features twisting into a scowl. Eliot laughed. “Well he is!” she protested.

“Mmm-hmm,” Eliot murmured. A thin layer of extra virgin olive oil went into his best cast iron pan, with a sprinkle of rosemary and a garlic salt blend he’d mixed up himself.

Tara huffed out an angry breath. “It’s like he’s got you people brainwashed or something.”

Eliot shrugged. “If he does, it’s not a bad way to live.” _Heat as high as it would go…_ “Look, Tara,” he went on after a moment, “they don’t know a lot about my past.” Memory started crowding in again, tightening his chest with the pain of old ghosts.

“You mean they don’t know about how tight you used to be with Damien Moreau.” It was almost a challenge, the way she threw the words at him.

Exhaling softly, Eliot forced himself to turn and look at her. “Exactly that.” _She didn’t beg._ As far as Eliot could tell, it was the only reason he’d been allowed to stay his hand. Muscle memory had the gun in his hand again, the feel of the barrel pressed hard enough against the back of her skull that she’d made a pain sound almost more real to him now than the hiss of the oil in the pan.

“And you’ll kill me if I start telling tales out of school.” Her voice was absolutely matter of fact. For the little amount of time they’d known each other, Eliot had always respected that about Tara. She had a practical view of the world that – if he was being completely objective – the team sorely needed. She also grasped things _very_ quickly. “Deal. This gig’s a chance to make some money and pay back Sophie a favor I owe her. I’ve got no interest in shortening my lifespan over something that happened a lifetime ago.”

Silence stretched between them. “For what it’s worth,” Eliot said finally, turning his attention back to fixing their food, “I am sorry about Jack.”

“Don’t,” she snapped, so sharply that when he glanced at her Eliot wasn’t surprised to see tears in her blue eyes. “Just…don’t. I need to be rational here, and having _you_ apologize to me?” The muscles along her jaw tightened; Eliot turned away first, giving her what he could in the way of emotional privacy.

It hadn’t been the worst thing he’d done for Moreau – not by a long shot – but Eliot had spent enough time away from Damien’s service that he could appreciate his perspective was warped. What he’d done to Jack Carlton, an FBI agent uncovered trying to infiltrate Moreau’s American distribution network, had been fairly run of the mill for those days.

He couldn’t realistically expect Jack’s wife and fellow agent to have seen what he’d done in the same light, though. _You would have gotten his body._ he recalled, his hands moving almost entirely independent of his conscious thoughts now. He respected her response, now that he remembered the extreme lengths to which she’d gone in pursuing her revenge.

“You want something to drink?” he asked, when it became clear Tara wasn’t immediately interested in continuing to talk to him.

“Whisky if you’ve got it,” she said, her voice suddenly thick with suppressed grief.

He gestured out of the kitchen with a small twitch of his head. “In the bar. Help yourself.”  
******************  
Tara left Eliot’s kitchen gratefully. Once she was out of his direct line of sight, she let go the breath she’d been holding, and with it a lot of the tension that had been making her sick almost since she’d learned who was going to be part of this little job she’d agreed to do for Sophie.

 _”I know what his reputation is,”_ the dark-haired grifter had insisted. _”I’m telling you Tara – he’s not like that. I work very closely with the man. I see him on an almost daily basis, and Eliot Spencer is a good man._

Laughing directly in her friend’s face would have prompted more questions than she was prepared to handle, however, and might have risked Sophie turning to somebody else. And Tara had to admit that after all this time she was curious about how fates had shaped the man who’d undone her life so thoroughly.

Forcing herself towards the bar, she hunted up the whisky. It had been an amateur move, breaking in and holding Eliot at gunpoint when she hadn’t decided to kill him yet. Now that her nerves were starting to level off, Tara was embarrassed to admit that she’d been half-hoping he would give her an excuse to fire. _You don’t become Damien Moreau’s right hand by spooking easily,_ she thought grimly. Pouring herself two fingers of alcohol, she tossed it off in one swallow and stood still for a long moment – staring into her past.

He seemed to accept that they would work together though. _As long as I don’t spill his big secret,_ she reminded herself. It was an easy condition for her to live with – Tara had no emotional connection to any of these people beyond Sophie, and Sophie wasn’t interested in anything she had to say anyway. _Certainly not enough for me to risk my life,_ she thought. Rousing herself, Tara poured herself a full glass and prepared to walk back and face the monster. She absolutely believed Eliot would kill her to keep his secret, and if he wasn’t going to give her an excuse to get her revenge she certainly wasn’t going to give him his opportunity either.

The kitchen had heated up considerably in the few minutes she’d been away – the smell of cooking meat assailed her almost immediately, creating an almost sexual response. _Hadn’t realized how hungry I was,_ she thought, even though part of her was still freaking over the idea of her breaking bread with Eliot Spencer.

 _Either going to let it go or you’re not,_ she reminded herself. No matter what side of the law she played, Tara had always prided herself on her professionalism. Holding onto her pain after she’d agreed to try and go forward working with Eliot was anything but.

“Good timing,” Eliot said. He’d just finished taking a second steak off the fire, sliding it onto a plate. Tara had a moment to register that he’d traded his button up for an apron and ponytailed his hair, before an unexpected surge of hormones slammed into her.

 _Oh God._ She dimly understood that alcohol was helping fuel what had to be an entirely physical response, but even that couldn’t stop her awareness that on a scale of twisted to fucked up, the images that were suddenly teasing at her were well into the range of “hie thee to a therapist”. Breathing deeply, she forced herself to walk towards the table and take her seat again.

Eliot had hesitated a moment, plates in hand. Tara knew he’d seen something in her reaction, even if she hoped he didn’t entirely understand what it as he was looking at. “You all right?” he asked carefully, setting a plate in front of her and taking his own seat.

Tara nodded a little too quickly to be believable. “Took the first glass too fast,” she said, saluting him and downing nearly half her current class in a single swallow.

Eliot’s expression became shrewd; Tara bristled, expecting him to challenge her. After a few seconds though, he shrugged and picked up his own utensils. “You’re the only one who can decide if you can do this, he said quietly. “I won’t make it harder for you, Tara, but I can’t make it easier either.”

Tara tried to buy herself some time by focusing on the food in front of her. The sight and smell of the steak was making her stomach growl. Cutting herself a piece, she put it in her mouth and moaned as the taste caressed her tongue.

When she’d recovered enough to chew and swallow the meat, she looked up at Eliot again. What she saw in his eyes was a flash – something if she exerted a little effort, Tara knew she could have easily explained away. The sight of it steadied her though. For one brief, unguarded moment he’d wanted her as much as she wanted him. It put them on equal footing – even if nothing ever came of it, they had something in common now beyond the death and the guns and the threats.

 _Not that anything will come of it,_ Tara thought, taking another bite of her steak. _It’s too fucked up without the addition of a whole lot of alcohol._

Almost as if he’d been reading her mind, Eliot took a long pull off his beer at almost the exact moment she raised her glass of whisky to her lips and drained it dry.


End file.
